


a couple of old shots

by philthestone



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've done this before, he thinks, right as she says, "Her drink's on her. Thanks, but no thanks."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a couple of old shots

**Author's Note:**

> dumb friendship fic because I love these two nerds  
> reviews are the stupid adorable crows' feet around Chris Pine's dumb eyes when he smiles really big

But imagine this:

A woman, sitting at the bar. Her eyes are soft, her wrinkles more from smiling than from weariness, hair shorter than ever before yet still dark and thick, only a few streaks of silver seeing light of day. A grey, starched collar presses into her neck. In her hand, she holds an empty glass – tall, and coloured – the type of drink that was quite possibly fruity and flavourful, more sugar than alcohol. Not the sort of thing she normally drinks, certainly.

Imagine this:

“A shot of Jack, please.”

The bartender smiles obligingly, reaches out to take the empty glass from the careworn hand with its fingers as manicured as ever, its skin still soft and smooth to the touch.

A voice interrupts the bartender’s reach for the glass, cheerful and playful and entirely too young for a man who looks that old – more seventy than sixty, really, his figure on the rounder side and his hair quite possibly receding.

Receding, notices the bartender, but still golden brown.

Imagine this:

“ _Two_ shots of Jack,” says the man, when he interrupts, sliding more gracefully than should be possible into the seat next to the woman and leaning on the counter. “Her shot’s on me.”

“Her shot’s on her,” retorts the woman smoothly, raising a hand to brush a stray hair out of her lined face. A small smirk tugs at her still-full lips. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The man lifts a thick eyebrow almost comically, leaning further forward so that he can face the woman properly.

Imagine this:

The man, protesting at the woman’s immediate refusal.

“Don’t you want to know my _name_ before you completely reject me?”

“I could do without it, really,” says the woman, tossing her head slightly and mirroring his raised eyebrow. She has the look of a woman trying very hard not to laugh.

“Just this once,” wheedles the man, his eyes sparkling and almost mischievous, “so I can claim one-time success.”

“No means no.”

“It would be symbolic,” argues her apparently unwanted companion, with a slight inclination of the head.

“Symbolic,” agrees she, “that my answer is the same as it was the first time.”

He does not seem the least bit perturbed, and the woman’s dark eyes are shining with suppressed mirth.

“And you’re still as breathtakingly beautiful as you were the first time,” he supplies, his grin teasing but his eyes – his eyes sincere.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, hon.”

“Not even after being acquainted with my lovely self for _all_ this time?”

“You mean, not even for putting up with you for all this time?”

“Oh, I’m not so bad. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stuck around for the past – what? Fifty years?”

“It has _not_ been fifty years.”

“My God, it has. _Fifty years!”_

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It has been fifty years since we first met. Holy shit.”

“Has not,” she said, ignoring the crass language.

“Has too.”

“Has not.”

“Has too!”

“Has _not_.”

“Okay, maybe like forty-eight.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Do the math, it’s right –”

“That’s not possible, I am not that old –”

“What, and I’m a spring chicken? The math –”

A gasp of surprise.

“ _Oh._ ”

“Told you.”

“Oh boy.”

“I totally _told_ you–”

“It’s been _fifty_ years.”

“It has.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“ _His_ shot’s on _her_ ,” manages the woman in a small voice, not looking at the man.

A confused pause – and then the man grins widely, his whole face lighting up, the crows’ feet around his eyes stretching down his cheeks.

“Why, Commander Uhura,” he says, raising a large hand and placing it dramatically over his heart. “You _flatter_ me!”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Captain Kirk,” is the weary reply, the woman’s smile fond.

He sighs loudly.

“What now?” she asks, turning to face her friend.

“Fifty years and I _still_ haven’t bought you a drink.”

She winks.

(Imagine this:

“So, I guess, this way,” starts Jim later, still-young blue eyes sparkling as they’re waiting to listen to the keynote address before the launching of the Federation’s newest flagship, “you still haven’t spoiled your pattern of turning down every man who isn’t Spock.”)

(Nyota hits him.)


End file.
